


Catharsis

by TheGlycoPeptide



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes becomes a writer and im crying, F/M, Fluff, Poetry, all the poetry is mine, angst if you squint, bucky wakes up in the middle of the night and writes can you hear my tears, get ready for some cavities, i really outdid myself with this fluff, slight angst, this is so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlycoPeptide/pseuds/TheGlycoPeptide
Summary: Written for a 2k Writing Challenge, the prompt was "word: catharsis."This is what I came up with. Enjoy!





	Catharsis

You didn’t realize it until one night when he held you close and spoke in your ear.

_“I want to dig myself into your warmth_

_I want to line my bones with it_

_I want to come away with you in my mouth_

_And in case anyone asks me to make my favorite sound,_

_I am ready with your name on my tongue.”_

You weren’t even entirely sure you  _did_ hear anything, right on the edge of falling asleep. But your suspicions were cleared the next day when you saw a small scrap of paper on his bedside table with that same poem scribbled on it.

            You picked it up and ran your fingers across the words, a small smile spreading across your face, imagining him writing it down quickly in the dead of night, awake from a nightmare. You knew you wouldn’t press him on it; this was immensely personal and he had had too many people occupy his mind for too long for you to take this away from him.

            Bucky Barnes was not an easy man to read. He held himself close, protecting what he salvaged and what he rebuilt with fierce responsibility. When he does something, he never half-assed it; Bucky put in his full effort at all times.

            So when he was working through his recovery, his therapist suggested writing out things that bothered him, made him angry, made him happy, and made him remember. At first he scoffed at the idea. How was he supposed to write it all out and  _see_ it made flesh? See it become  _real?_

            But after much pleading by his therapist, he ultimately conceded. He wrote out lists, he wrote out his thoughts, his fears, anything he could think of in the moment. He would wake up screaming during the night with you by his side, running soothing hands through his hair, holding him close to your chest. You would run your hands all around him, humming a familiar song in his ear, one that was  _his,_ and he started to feel a little comfort. Then he would get out of bed after reassuring you he was fine, and make his way to his office. And he would write.

            You didn’t ask, you knew it was his solace.

            When he crawled back into bed, thinking you were asleep, he would pull you close again and whisper into your ear all of his thoughts.

            Sometime down the line, those lists, those musings, turned into poetry. Bucky didn’t expect this. He remembered once upon a time back before the war, he tried his hand at poetry. It was tucked back so deep into his mind, he almost felt like it was something he made up. But as soon as he tried to fit his words together and tie them to his emotions, it was like returning muscle memory. His fingers just  _knew._

            So when he came back to his place next to you on the bed, he wanted to show you how he was feeling. The only way he could think of was to recite his poetry to you. He would hold you close and brush his lips to your ear, place a soft kiss there and speak beauty to you:

_“I wanted these words to come out like the honey_

_that drips from your voice_

_But all I could think about is the way your fingers feel_

_when they run across my neck_

_And there are no words for that”_

            After days and weeks of this, he came up to you and told you he was thinking of enrolling in a college and taking some classes. You were ecstatic, you couldn’t believe he had come this far and wanted to further himself in any way he knew how. You asked him what courses he wanted to focus on and he looked down at his feet for a second, a small blush creeping into his skin.

            Sheepishly, he looked up at you again and said, “Writing.”

            You threw your arms around him for a fierce hug and didn’t let go, rather you wrapped your legs around his waist and heard him let out a loud laugh. Bucky felt tension release from his shoulders, happy that you never judged him, always just accepted.

            Months and months had gone by with Bucky attending college, learning and absorbing everything. He had started to warm up to showing you his writing, but he did it in his own way. He would leave notes around the house, little scraps of things he thought about when he thought about you.

             _“My heart is thirsty for even a drop of you”_

_“These words are red because I have never seen you in any other way”_

_“I feel a hole in my heart and you are the only piece that fits”_

Every time you read another piece of his mind, your heart grew bigger and bigger. You didn’t know he was writing about you, you thought he talked about his nightmares, his torture, his past…but when you would see the small poems he left out for you, you knew he was better.

             _“The spaces between my fingers make me think of you_

_You seem to have a way of filling_

_every emptiness I can imagine”_         

            You surprised him with beautiful leather-bound journals, an array of fountain pens with multiple ink bottles, a way for him to not only write beautiful words, but to make them  _look_ beautiful too. Bucky had gorgeous handwriting, and he was more than happy to practice lettering and calligraphy. He even ventured into art, although you both knew he was already a well-trained artist like Steve.

             _“I looked inside the cracks of you and found myself_

_Hold me there. Let me beat through you.”_

One night after coming back from work, you and him were cooking and he brought out one of the journals you had bought him, worn with his writing. He opened up to a page and showed you. After reading it, you let out a small gasp, because he captured the night before with such grace and beauty, you couldn’t believe it.

_“In the body of this house_

_we shiver and quiver_

_Our gooseflesh has made friends with one another_

_Has come to know one another._

_Here we lay and drink honey from each other’s collarbones_

_Lap up the sticky sweetness,_

_the wholeness_

_of it all_

_mutter, “stay”_

_in shoulder blades_

_whisper “okay”_

_in ribcages_

_And cross paths into the spaces between our fingers_

_And tangle limbs into the curvature of each other_

_And wonder,_

_“why did we ever think of leaving?”_

He gently pulled your hand towards him and led you to the bedroom, where you saw a large canvas laying on the bed. You both approached it and he started explaining right away.

            “Whenever I would wake up from a nightmare or if I couldn’t sleep, I would start writing. It was all about you. I don’t know why, it just kind of happened to come out? Every time I was trying to shake myself out of those thoughts and think of something good, something  _happy,_ you would pop into my mind.”

            You reached out and touched the canvas, and you couldn’t believe your eyes.

            “So, I wanted to do something for you. You’ve been so good to me, doll. So patient, so caring, so  _sweet_. And when I thought of this and started workin’ on it, it ended up being something soothing for me, too. The nightmares started to fade and I’ve been sleeping better than I have before.”

            Looking closer at the canvas, you saw that it was a black and white painted picture of you laughing. It was a shot that Bucky no doubt took of you months ago when you dragged him around town to lighten his mood. In the picture, your head was thrown back and your mouth wide open letting out a strong laugh.

            But when you closed in on it, you realized that all of the black parts, the shading, the outline of your person was done with the poems he wrote about you. Each little shadow, the curve of your eyes, the strands of your hair, was done with the words he had written, his lists, his nightmares, his declarations of love, his descriptions of your smile; everything he had filled in those journals was now standing proud as an image of you.

            You reached out and grabbed his face with your hands, planting a kiss on his lips that you hoped would show him what you were feeling.

            “Bucky, this is unbelievable…. I can’t wrap my head around this.” He smiled down at you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

            “Doll,  _you’re_ unbelievable. My life wouldn’t be the same without you. You helped me crawl out of my shell. While doing all of this, I realized that you are my solace.”

            You rested your head on his chest, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He leaned down and inhaled your scent through your hair.     

            “ _You_ are my  **catharsis**.” 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hope you all enjoyed!


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